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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24676516">I Have Nothing to Say</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schweet/pseuds/Schweet'>Schweet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Depression, Essays, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:34:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>902</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24676516</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schweet/pseuds/Schweet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Have Nothing to Say</h2></a>
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    <p>
  <span>I have nothing to say. And when I say I have nothing to say I mean my blankets are twisted so I can't concentrate. I can't concentrate because I don't want to look at the feelings I have. I don't want the feelings just like I don't want the memories. I think if I lived alone I would be an alcoholic. I don't want the memories. Or the loneliness. I mean I still feel alone even though I'm never alone. Not anymore. Even after two years of getting better, it's not yet better. When I say two years I really mean 5, but I like to say I reset the clock when I swallowed the pills. The clock reset because I can't remember those three days. I can't remember those three days because I swallowed the pills. I swallowed the pills because I was lonely. By lonely I mean I had been so happy. Those two weeks were the best of my life. I felt that absence sharp as the warm steel I so often hold to my wrists. It's warm because the water is always hot. I like to turn the handle as far to the left as it will go because the angry redness of my skin fades and no one will know. It fades because the air is always cold. It's cold so I like to stay in the water longer. I like to pretend I'm boiling myself, preparing myself for the daily feast of others upon my flesh. They were always going to eat my heart, so why not make it comfortable? I make it comfortable because it's easier. For me. This way I don't have to feel the betrayal that I always hold my fists up for ready to strike before it decks me. I'm always so eager to fight because of Her. She. The one who broke my heart. 5 years and it's always back to her. 323 words and it's always back to Her. I don't want it to be back to Her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's another her. But it makes me sad to think of her. Sad because I love her. Love is supposed to make you happy. Happy isn't crying when you understand why you would do anything for her. Even live for her. Happy isn't leaving class early because you can't stomach the person who lives such a truth. They're always saying to live your truth but my truth is a hope I cannot act on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What do I always say? You either laugh or cry and I've done enough crying. My aunt says crying isn't a weakness. My mother says it's a release. I don't cry anymore. Especially when I'm alone. Does that mean I only cry for attention? I loved the attention when I was little. Once I sprained my ankle at my grandmother's house. I slid on those rugs Aunt Liz replaced 6 Christmases ago. I sat in the middle of the room with a bag of ice and every member of the November Household paid their respects. I loved the attention. Maybe that's why I hurt myself. Even if I no longer run to my mother with bruised ankles or split open knees with pavement ground into my skin. Even if I never limp in public. I pay attention to myself. The clean up is the best part. Wiping away the blood and tearing open a gauze pad because the only band aids we have right now are those weird knuckle ones. Sometimes I wrap my arms in bandages just to feel better. It's hard to feel better sometimes. A lot of the time. Most of the time. That just makes the good days even better. The good days are great days. I've been having a lot of great days recently. When I say recently I mean the past two weeks. I think it's because I'm trying to take care of myself. When I say that I mean my mother is forcing me to take care of myself. So I've been taking my pills every morning. So I've been taking my pills every afternoon. So I've been taking my pills every night. I've even started brushing my teeth and washing my face before I go to bed. By washing my face I really mean using a makeup wipe but now instead of scratching my legs until I bleed I put on lotion. I put on lotion in bed because that's the safest place in my room. My room is safer now than it was before but I still don't like my closet. It no longer scares me to see my closet from my bed. I'm in bed right now the blankets are soft and it's 1:15 in the morning. Please don't tell my mom. I still stay up later than the crickets, the cicadas long past their final encore. Even the highway is silent. It's not silent in my room right now my head is too loud. My head is too loud because it's a new day and I have so much to say. I have so much to say because I never say anything. I'm like the Doctor in that way. Not in all the ways I want to be but because all I do is talk and yet I have nothing to say. I have plenty to say. But I don't trust anyone will want to listen.</span>
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